


As Fresh Meat Loves Salt

by PipMer



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Both Holmes Brothers are Emotionally Constipated, Cap O' Rushes, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Kiss, Friendship, M/M, Romance, letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a retelling of the English fairytale Cap O' Rushes with characters from Sherlock, written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 2.<br/> <br/>Sherlock is thrown out of his home by his brother, Lord Mycroft Holmes.  Alone and friendless, he does his best to harden his heart against any further entanglements.  But even he couldn't foresee the arrival of Captain John Hamish Watson.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <b>ORIGINALLY POSTED UNDER THE TITLE "CAP O' RUSHES"</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	As Fresh Meat Loves Salt

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 2: Choose a favorite fairy tale and rewrite it with characters from Sherlock. 
> 
> I chose the English fairytale Cap O' Rushes. I've included two versions of this tale [here](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/eft/eft12.htm) and [here](http://www.longlongtimeago.com/llta_fairytales_caporushes.html).
> 
>    
> Undying gratitude and thanks go out to my wonderful betas, Interrosand and maladroitoracle. I thank you so much for your time. This fic is actually in the process of being brit-picked, but due to time constraints I had to post it before completion. I will make revisions as soon as I receive feedback. In the meantime, feel free to point out any errors and I will correct them.
> 
>  
> 
> So... this is a fairytale. As such, even though I envision this story as being set sometime around the early 1800's, I took certain liberties and called it artistic license. For example, men can marry men, and women can marry women. I don't know if English soldiers during that time period were actually engaged in the areas of the world mentioned, but that's what I went with. Also, let's just pretend the concept of 'psychosomatic' existed before 1860, m'kay?

 

 

 

 

Lord Mycroft Holmes sighed and put his weary head in his hands.  It had been another trying day, attempting to prove worthy of the peerage that he had inherited upon the death of his father just two months previous.  He had always dreamed and yearned for power, but now that it had been dropped so precipitously in his lap, the burden lay heavy as a yoke upon his young shoulders.  It was just a minor title, that of baron; it wasn’t like he was a member of the Royal Family itself.  Still, he found himself woefully unprepared for so much responsibility so soon, with two younger siblings yet under his care to manage.  That thought alone added to his considerable anxiety and the endless churning in his gut.  He pressed the heels of his palms into his sleep-deprived eyes, rubbing the grit away and forcing his sluggish mind into activity again. 

 

He raised his head and stared out the window into the quickening twilight.  His younger brother was out amongst the flowering garden, kneeling in the grubby dirt with his magnifier close to his eye as he examined the stamens of a particularly glorious, and extremely rare, pink orchid.  Mycroft sighed in exasperation at the sight.  The youngest Holmes was once again shirking his studies in favour of getting his hands dirty with his little hobbies and projects that served no purpose other than idling away valuable time that could be better spent engaging in useful activities.  Sherrinford, on the other hand, seemed to have a much more sensible head on her shoulders, as evidenced by her decision to study law under the tutelage of a well-respected barrister.  At least that was a marketable skill that could be applied in the real world.  Sherlock’s head was continually stuck in the clouds, with not much awareness of how the world actually worked, or how to relate to normal people in a socially acceptable manner.  His lack of social graces and tact would eventually work against him if he didn’t come to his senses soon.  He already had a reputation for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, not even realising that he was alienating those around him as he did so.

 

Mycroft had a plan to put the reins on that particular horse before it even left the stall.  It was time to test his siblings’ ability to toe the line and perform the duty for which they had been groomed since they were small children: to play a part with sly tongue and honeyed words in order to elicit a desirable outcome.  The most efficient way to wield power was through manipulation, and although Sherrinford was learning how to hold her own admirably, Sherlock was suitably guileless enough to still need guidance.  Eloquence, not to put too fine a point on it, was not his strong suit.  More often than not, his words thoughtlessly flew off his tongue, abrasive and cutting. 

 

So tomorrow morning, he would set a test for his siblings, and see who passed… and who needed further instruction.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

At eight o’clock sharp, Mycroft stood in front of his massive mahogany desk, arms crossed and legs slightly apart.  He schooled his face into a practiced expression of fondness and paternal care.   Sherrinford stood with back stiff and arms straight at her sides, eyes focussed on a point beyond Mycroft’s left shoulder.  Sherlock restlessly shifted from foot to foot, hands clasped behind his back, making eye contact with his brother easily and without discomfort. 

 

 

“I have a question for you both, and I need you to think carefully on it before you answer.  How much do you love me, my dears?”

 

Sherrinford frowned and her brow creased as she took in the unexpected question.  After a bare few seconds, she brightened as her mind found an ostensibly suitable answer.

 

“Why, brother, I love you as much as I love my own life, and also more than all the world.”

 

Mycroft was very pleased with her answer.  "That's good," said he.  “Very good.”

 

He turned to his only brother, and asked,” And you, Sherlock?  What is your answer?”

 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side as he gave his elder brother a considering look.  The silence stretched on for thirty beats before his eyes lit up with sudden understanding, the way they did when he had stumbled upon the solution to a particularly engaging puzzle.

 

“I love you as much as fresh meat loves salt," replied Sherlock, with all the seriousness of a monk taking a vow. 

 

Mycroft’s reaction was swift and unforgiving.  Hot fury coursed through his veins, and he clenched both fists tightly at his sides.  This was worse than he had expected.  Of course Sherlock would combine bone-honest truth with scathing insult.  He never bothered with sugar coating his words to convey anything less than what he truly meant, and the analogy he had just made brooked no misunderstanding on the listener’s part.  The worst part about it was looking into his brother’s eyes and seeing naked clarity; not one _hint_ of artifice could be detected, and this unsettled him greatly.   Mycroft didn’t know which emotion was stronger: anger over Sherlock’s obstinate refusal to conform to acceptable standards, or hurt over his unmitigated expression of disdain. 

 

Rage coloured his vision and clouded his thoughts as all reason fled him, and he instinctively struck out the only way he knew how.

 

"You don't love me at all, then,” Mycroft growled, “and in my house you stay no more."

 

Sherrinford looked on with an unreadable expression as Mycroft grabbed his brother by the arm and herded him out of his study, through the grand, oak-panelled great hall and to the front entrance.  Hurt and confusion were plainly writ on Sherlock’s face, but Mycroft either failed to notice or chose to ignore it. It mattered not which, for the result was the same.

 

Mycroft yanked the door open and shoved his brother through.  “You are no longer my brother,” he snarled before slamming the door in Sherlock’s face. 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Sherlock stood at the front door for several minutes, staring at the dark blue door and its golden lion’s head knocker.  His face burned red with shame and moisture pricked the corners of his eyes.  He blinked rapidly to defuse the sensation.  His lack of understanding prompted him to search his mind palace for hints of what he had done wrong, clues to social cues that he must have missed. 

 

He had only told the truth.  He had thought that he had been quite clever in his analogy, truthful yet free of unnecessary cloying sentiment, something he had been sure his brother would appreciate more than their sister’s obviously insincere hyperbole. 

 

Apparently, he had been wrong.  Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he did nothing to stop them.  He turned sharply on his heel and started down the long, winding path that led to the main road.  He had no idea where he was going to go, or how he was going to survive.  All he had were the clothes on his back; he didn’t even have a penny to his name. 

 

He reached deep down inside himself for the strength that he knew he possessed.  He straightened his back and lifted his chin.  He was a Holmes, which meant he was certain to find a solution that would be to his benefit.  He had just learned a valuable lesson, that caring was not an advantage.  All he had to do was remember that, and he would always find himself on the winning side. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Sherlock tugged at his aubergine brocade waistcoat, flicking away white lint with one elegant finger.  His lack of a coat proved fortuitous as the sun beat down mercilessly.  The sleeves of his pristine white shirt were rolled up past his elbows; he panted tiredly as he wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm.  For two days and two nights he had been walking without encountering either food or shelter.  He stopped in the shade of a majestic oak whose branches hung invitingly over the road.  He bent over with his hands on his knees, and struggled to catch his breath. 

 

After a few moments he straightened and took stock of himself.  The clothes he was wearing might be two days old, but they proclaimed to all who would see him that he was of the noble classes.  He didn’t normally bother to pay attention to appearances or how he came across to other people, but he had enough sense to realise that if someone of his class were caught in such an itinerant and penniless condition, the consequences for him and his family would be far-reaching and long-lasting.  He would have need of disguising his identity before he encountered other people.

 

He glanced around his immediate surroundings, his eye catching sight of a pond nestled in a small dale behind the oak tree.  Along the edge were scattered cattails and rushes.  An idea flashed into his mind, and he smiled to himself.  He unlaced his shoes and toed them off.  He stuffed his stockings inside of them, then gingerly crept down to the pond’s edge.  He was distracted for a brief moment by the sight of a bright blue frog, something he had never before seen.  For a fleeting instant, he was transported onto his brother’s property, where it was an ordinary Saturday during which he was happily exploring to his heart’s content.  A loud rumble emanating from his empty stomach brought him rudely back to the unfortunate situation he was in.

 

Mindful of his breeches, Sherlock carefully stepped into the tepid water.  He took his knife out of his pocket and bent forward to cut several rushes at the point where they emerged from the water.  When he had accumulated a large armful, he braided them together and covered his entire body with them from head to foot.  His clothes were completely hidden, as was his identity.  He stood at the pond’s edge, considering his reflection.  His signature dark curls were obscured, as were all other recognisable parts of himself.  Satisfied that nobody would be able to recognise him as a gentleman of leisure, let alone as Sherlock Holmes, he walked back up to the tree and retrieved his shoes and stockings.  When he was once again properly shod, he set off to find shelter and sustenance. 

 

Four hours later, the sun was on the bare edge of the western horizon, casting long dark shadows across Sherlock’s path.  The sky boasted a kaleidoscope of brilliant colours, pink and orange fingers reaching through the low clouds to paint a picture that rivalled the greatest artists. 

 

Sherlock appreciated none of it, but that was because he had finally happened upon the first lodging, besides his own, that he had seen in two days.  He was used to not eating or sleeping, or interacting with people, sometimes for days on end.  However, the shock of recent events had left him unexpectedly heartsick and physically exhausted.  He was hyperaware of his body’s needs as his stomach let out an insistent rumble.  Weariness tugged at him, the pull of gravity becoming more compelling with each step.  He swore that he could sleep for a week.  Dizzying relief almost made his knees collapse when he caught sight of the stately brick manor rising majestically before him.

 

He stood before the ornate wooden door and took a moment to collect himself.  He clutched the rushes closer around his body as if armouring himself for battle, and lifted his chin in defiance of his inner turmoil.  He took a deep breath, lifted his hand, and rapped on the door thrice.

 

A woman opened the door, shoulders stooped and a generous crown of wintry hair upon her head.  A pair of piercing blue eyes set in a brown, weathered face raked him over from head to toe.  Even though she was only of a height with Sherlock’s midsection, he felt smaller than a child and felt compelled to lower his eyes under her intense perusal.

 

“What do you want, lad?” she rasped in a scratchy voice.

 

'I have nowhere to go, and nowhere to stay,' replied Sherlock. 'I'll do any sort of work for you, and ask only for food and a roof to sleep under in return.'

 

'Well,' said the crone. 'We do need someone to scrub the floor and wash the dishes and scour the pans. If you are willing to do that, you are welcome to stay.'

 

So Sherlock agreed to do the all the menial work of the household, in exchange for one square meal a day and a comfortable bed to sleep on one night out of three.  The master of the household looked at him askance when Sherlock offered his terms, merely shrugged and agreed with a shake of hands.  He kept to himself, never engaging in the household gossip with the other servants.  But his mind was always active, and his eyes were always observing.  He never offered up his name to anybody, and he refused the offerings of clothing made to him in favour of his cloak of reeds, so the staff started referring to him as Cap O’ Rushes.

 

He never corrected them.

 

* * *

 

 

After a fortnight of unending drudgery, incessant chatter and crushing ennui, Sherlock was going out of his skull with boredom.  If he actually had his skull with him, he might have at least been able to talk out all the stale thoughts rattling inside his head with no purpose.  As it was, there had been no new data coming in for days.  He had gleaned everything there was to know of interest about all the members of the household, since there was very little to be had in the first place.  It was all so very disappointing and _dull,_ and he honestly didn’t know how he was to survive another hour in the company of such tiny little minds.  Nothing was happening to him, and he was about to climb the walls out of sheer frustration.

 

Thankfully, news of a social event made its way into the maids’ daily dose of gossip.  Finally, here was a potential opportunity of stimulation for his great mind before it atrophied from lack of use.  Sherlock kept one ear open as he scrubbed the pot of sticky gruel from that morning’s breakfast.  He was surprised when the shyest of the maids approached him and tentatively touched his arm.

 

“What is it, Molly?” he asked rudely, his attention never wavering from his chore.

 

“Oh, um… apologies, Cap O’ Rushes, but we’ve all been given leave to attend the dance tonight in the neighbouring village and watch the rich folk dance.  Will you… that is, would you like to come with us?”

 

 

Sherlock gave her a small smile, but shook his head.  “I think not, Molly.  I have far too much to do, and when I am done I will be far too tired to walk that distance, after being on my feet all day long.”

 

A look of disappointment crossed Molly’s face.  “Oh.  Well, alright then, if you’re sure?  I mean, I can lend you a hand with your chores, if you wish, and lighten the burden a bit.”

 

Annoyance flared in his chest, but he clamped it down with great effort.  It wouldn’t do to become too cross with her, since she was the one who provided him with purloined books from the library on the nights that he didn’t sleep.  “I appreciate it, but there’s no need.”  A false smile twisted his features.  “I do hope you and your friends have fun.”

 

Molly nodded, seemingly accepting that she was being brushed off, and blessedly returned to her work. 

 

As the evening approached and the other servants set about getting ready for the walk to the next village, Sherlock feigned tiredness and retired to his room.  He lay down, still clothed in his rushes, until the noises from the adjoining rooms died down and he considered himself alone.  As soon as he deemed it safe, he jumped up from his supine position as if he were a windup toy and someone had twisted his spring as tight as it could go, then let loose.  He whipped the confining rushes from his body and emerged from the room dressed in all his finery.  He took a quick, appraising glance in the mirror in the hallway, ruffling and shaking out his flattened locks and smoothing out the slight wrinkles in his waistcoat and shirt.  Satisfied that he looked presentable enough to pass for one of the ‘rich folk’, he took off down the road. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock Holmes was not, nor had he ever been, interested in dancing.  The only reason he was here, tonight, right now, was because he was _bored_ and in need of a distraction.  _Any_ kind of distraction would do.  It needn’t be intellectual - Sherlock would make do with mere sensory stimulation if he had to - but he would prefer to have both.  Anything to engage his mind would be well and truly welcome.

 

So he hung back from the crowd of dancing bodies and observed from a dark corner while he sipped on what he had to admit was the best whiskey that had ever passed his lips.  And he had had some fine ones, thanks to Mycroft’s habit of accepting alternative forms of payment for product and services rendered.  He had to admit, there was a plethora of data here to collect and then sift through at his leisure. 

 

The two women giggling in the far corner, heads together as if sharing intimate secrets, had grown up together as best friends but had just recently become lovers.  The couple talking to one of the musicians had been together for over a decade and had been cheating on each other since before their wedding.  The barkeep serving drinks at the opposite wall was diluting the ale (never the hard liquor) and embezzling from his employer. 

 

As Sherlock’s eyes roamed over the room, he caught sight of a very handsome man in the scarlet colours of a military uniform whose epaulets ranked him as a captain.  The man was of below-average height, but he made quite a presence in the room; he carried himself with obvious confidence and surety, and yet his stance was relaxed and open.  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled and engaged in easy conversation with his compatriots.  Yet, for all his seeming levity, his smile never quite reached his eyes, which were shadowed with a hint of sadness.  At his side he clutched a cane as a child would a security blanket.

 

He bore more than a passing resemblance to Sherlock’s master; he was more likely than not his son.

 

Sherlock was intrigued, but he never allowed himself to be drawn into any one person’s orbit, so he continued to observe and catalogue everyone he could see.    

 

  

It was a testament to how much data was inundating his mind palace from the swirling mass of humanity that he failed to notice the warmth emanating from his right side until a hand placed on his upper arm startled him back to awareness.  He gave the man next to him a surprised look.

 

“Pardon me,” the handsome captain with the attractive grey-blonde hair said politely.  Sherlock stared and found himself drowning in ocean-blue depths.  The man tilted his head and smiled.  “I’ve noticed that you’ve been standing in this exact spot for well over an hour, and have made no move to join in the festivities.  Do you not enjoy dancing?”

 

The man removed his hand from Sherlock’s arm and took a small step back.  Sherlock instantly felt bereft.  He did not like the feeling, and took immediate action to rectify the situation.  He schooled his expression into one of utmost indifference.

 

“I do not dance,” he stated as he took a sip of his whiskey and pointedly turned back to the room, making a show of surveying the occupants. 

 

“Indeed?  Then may I be so forward as to ask why you are here, then, if not to dance?”

 

_I could ask you the same thing,_ Sherlock thought.

 

“I’m here to observe.”

 

“Observe?” The man’s eyes lit up with interest and humour.  “Truly?  Then tell me, good sir, what do you observe about me?”  The man stepped back a few steps more and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did as requested.  He gave the captain another quick once-over, for he already had most of the information he needed at his first glance.  He cleared his throat before engaging.

 

“Africa or India?” he asked.

 

The man blinked.  “Excuse me?”

 

Sherlock sighed heavily.  “Just answer the question.  Was it Africa or India?”

 

“India.  How did you –“

 

“It’s obvious you’re a military man, any idiot can see that with your uniform, no great leap there.  Your rank is captain… again, obvious from the decorations on your shoulders.  You have a healthy tan and your hair is partly bleached by being exposed to intense sunlight over a long period of time.  Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you stand for long periods of time without discomfort, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then.  Where do soldiers see action these days with that kind of climate?  Africa or India… process of elimination.  Elementary.”

 

The man stared at him, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide.  Feeling unaccountably nervous, Sherlock lowered his eyes and took a gulp of his rapidly warming drink. 

 

  
“That… was amazing.”

 

Sherlock’s head jerked up, eyes narrowed.  “You really think so?”

 

“Of course, that was extraordinary, quite… extraordinary.”

 

It was Sherlock’s turn to blink.  Encouraged, he shook himself from his stupor and entered into a rapid-fire monologue of more observations.

 

“You’re the son of Colonel Hamish Angus Watson – obvious, you’re the spitting image of him, and have taken on many of his mannerisms - and you’re here mostly because of his insistence that you find yourself a suitable mate.  You’re divorced, as evidenced by the tan line on your left ring finger, and he is in a rush to see you married off again, since you have no children and you’re not getting any younger.  You have a sister you haven’t spoken to in years, maybe because of her drinking, possibly because she regularly cheats on her wife.  You can’t go back into the army, so you’ve been thinking about resuming your study of medicine that you began several years ago but gave up due to familial pressures.”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and swallowed nervously, eyes searching the man’s in front of him for validation of his conclusions.  Something that he couldn’t quite identify flashed briefly in the captain’s eyes but was quickly sublimated in favour of frank and honest admiration. 

 

“How’d I do?”

 

The corner of the man’s mouth lifted in a small smile.  “Almost spot-on with everything.  Except,” he pulled the collar of his uniform outward as he lifted a chain with a golden wedding band hanging from it, “I’m not divorced.  My wife died almost a year ago.  My father insisted that I not continue to wear my ring on my finger, because that would imply that I’m still married and not ‘available’.  So I keep it here, close to my heart.”

 

_Sentiment,_ Sherlock thought with a twinge of empathy.

 

“I am sorry,” Sherlock responded automatically.  _There’s always something,_ he thought.  He was proud of himself for not voicing the thought aloud.  Mycroft would be proud, too.

 

The thought sobered him up instantly.

 

The man shrugged and gave Sherlock a sad smile.  “I’ll always miss her, but – it truly is time for me to try and move on.  Father is right about that, at least.”  He cocked his head and regarded Sherlock with a serious expression.  “Perhaps I could persuade you to indulge me in just one dance, Mister….”

 

“Nordhagen.  Siger Nordhagen.  And only if you tell me your name in return.”

 

The man smiled a blindingly beautiful smile that made Sherlock’s heart stop.  “You’ve already deduced half of it – actually, two-thirds.  It’s John.  John Hamish Watson.”

 

Such an ordinary name for such an intriguing man, Sherlock thought.

 

The rest of the evening saw Sherlock and John dancing with no one but each other.  They danced slow romantic dances, and they danced fast lively dances.  It was nearing midnight when John excused himself for a moment, and Sherlock took that opportunity to slip back to his master’s house before the other servants left for home as well.  On his way out, he spied John’s cane resting against the table he had been sitting at earlier during a break in dancing when the two of them had sat companionably sipping drinks.  Smirking, he grabbed it and took it with him back to the manor.

 

Sherlock donned his rushes when he returned, and lay down in his bed as if he had never left that evening, clutching the cane to his chest as he tried to fight off the insistent mantra inside his head, _caring is not an advantage._

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Molly pounced on him as soon as he entered the kitchen.

 

“Oh, Cap,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together and bouncing on the balls of her feet, “you missed it last night!  The most handsome man I’ve ever seen was at the dance.”  Her eyes took on a dreamy quality as they focussed on what she was seeing in her head.  “He was perfect.  He had the most gorgeous head of dark curly hair, and eyes the colour of the sea after a storm – not unlike yours, actually.  The master’s son was quite taken with him.  Why, they danced with naught but each other the entire evening, until the mystery lad just up and disappeared.”

 

Sherlock smiled indulgently.  “I truly wish I could have been there to see him,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

 

“Well, there’s another dance tonight; come with us and maybe you’ll see then.”

 

“Perhaps I will.”

 

But when the appointed time came, Sherlock once again begged off, claiming that he was feeling poorly.  He claimed that he would just sit in the kitchen and read the books Molly had snuck to him that afternoon.  His heart thudded in his chest as he waited for the servants to either retire or head off for the festivities.  He impatiently waited for a half hour after the last noises had died down before he ventured forth in all his finery.  Taking special care this time to clean himself up properly, he arranged his hair into what he knew was an eye-catching style.  He hadn’t seen anyone there the previous night that he recognised, and he prayed that he would remain incognito tonight as well. 

 

He was ten steps away from the manor’s front door when he cursed and turned back.  He opened the bedroom door and reached under the covers for the cane, gripping it with a sense of purpose as he retraced his steps out the door and back to the village dance once again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As soon as John saw Sherlock enter the room, his eyes lit up and his face broke out into a huge grin.  He ducked his head next to the man he was talking to and shook his hand as he clapped him on the shoulder.  Dismissing whoever it was, he strode over to where Sherlock stood waiting.  He shyly took Sherlock’s hand in his own.

 

“I am very glad to see you again,” he said, his voice low and husky, causing a tremor to travel through Sherlock’s body. 

 

“And I you,” Sherlock responded with uncharacteristic graciousness.  He smiled slyly and raised one eyebrow as he offered up John’s cane.  “I believe this is yours? As I also believe that you no longer need it?”

 

John grinned and huffed out a laugh.  “I daresay you were right.”

 

“Of course I am.  Care to be specific?”

 

“Yes, yes, you insufferable git.  You were right about everything… except, of course, my wife.  But that mistake could have happened to anyone, am I right?”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “I am not just ‘anyone’.”

 

“Well, of course you aren’t.  If you were, you hardly would have caught my eye, would you?”

 

Sherlock raised one elegant eyebrow.  “I believe it was you who first caught _my_ eye, Captain.”

 

“Chicken and egg.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

John threw back his head and let out a hearty laugh, one that made Sherlock’s insides do funny things.  It didn’t feel like it did when he was being laughed at; he wasn’t sure how to interpret this.

 

“It doesn’t matter which came first, Siger; only that both happened.”  John reached out and took the cane from Sherlock’s outstretched hand…. and promptly chucked it curved-handle first in the nearby bin.  They stood grinning at each other for endless minutes.

 

John broke the spell first.  “Come,” he said, gesturing with his head at the terrace.  “Join me outside for some fresh air, yes?”

 

Sherlock nodded, and followed John outside.  The evening was pleasant, the humidity dying down with the approach of dusk.  Lanterns had already been hung and lit in anticipation of the gathering darkness.  Sounds from the nearby flowing river rose up around them: the chirping frogs heralded the approach of sunset, a plopping sound signalled a fish rising to the surface in search of food, and an unseen animal foraged near the bank.  Sherlock stood with his hands in his pockets and watched John as the soldier leaned his arms on the wooden railing and regarded the placid surroundings. 

 

“There was an actual wound, yes?”

 

John turned his head and regarded Sherlock with warm eyes.  “Pardon?”

 

“Your leg bears no physical trauma, and yet you were invalided out of the army.  Where and how were you injured?”

 

“Oh.”  John straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders and popping his vertebrae.  He turned to face Sherlock.  “Shot in the shoulder.”

 

“The left one.”

 

John smiled.  “Good guess.”

 

“I never guess.”

 

John reflexively reached up to finger the chain around his neck.  “Yeah, you do,” he said without rancour.

 

Sherlock smirked.

 

John’s smile faded as he continued to regard Sherlock thoughtfully.  “You know an awful lot about me, and yet I know nothing about you.  I don’t even know your name.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.  “I told you my name.  It’s…”

 

“Nordhagen, yes.  Scandinavian in origin, is it not?”

 

“I…”

 

“You are undeniably an Englishman born and bred, at the very least second generation.  If your forefathers had come from the Norse country, they would have Anglicized the name shortly after arriving here.  Then there’s your appearance; your colouring and bone structure are all wrong for a Scandinavian.” 

 

John paused to let all of that sink in before he said,   “You see, you aren’t the only one who can observe and draw conclusions from those observations.”

 

The silence stretched on for several heartbeats, tense and uncomfortable.  Finally Sherlock shifted his feet and cleared his throat.

 

“A bit awkward, this,” he offered.

 

John shook his head.  “It’s alright, Siger…or whatever your name is.  Everyone’s got secrets, and I know what it’s like to want to escape from everything real life has to offer.”  He caught Sherlock’s eyes and held them.  “I’ll take what I can get, for as long as I can have it,” he said softly as he reached up and caressed Sherlock’s cheek with the back of his hand.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch before he realised what he was doing, and by that time he decided to just surrender to the feeling.  This didn’t have to mean anything beyond a few hours of distraction and pleasant company.  There was not much risk of anything of significance happening within that time frame.

 

His eyes snapped open as the background hum from the dance floor suddenly notched up in volume.  John’s eyes widened in turn, and they both turned in tandem to peer into the room. 

 

John gasped, palm raised to his mouth.  “Sweet Mother of God,” he whispered.  “What is _he_ doing here?”

 

Sherlock squinted and thrust his head forward to get a better look at the scenario unfolding before him.  He saw a tall, thin man with a regal air about him surrounded by adoring women vying for a kiss on their outstretched hands.  He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he watched them preening and fawning for favour. 

 

“Who is that?” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear.  He jerked back when John unexpectedly turned his head to give him an incredulous look.

 

“Who is… Are you serious?”  Sherlock continued looking at him blankly.  John shook his head in disbelief.

 

“Siger, that is the Duke of Cornwall.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Oh for the love of… The Prince!  His Royal Highness himself!  The heir apparent to the throne of England.”

 

Sherlock glanced back into the room, really observing this time.  Ah yes, of course.  His ostentatious regalia, the way he carried himself around the room, his aura of entitlement… there was really no one else it could be.

 

“Of course it is,” Sherlock said, fake disinterest colouring his tone.  John raised a blonde eyebrow, and that’s all it took; they both broke into a fit of giggles like a pair of adolescent girls.  They backed off into the shadows, hands covering their mouths uselessly.  They leaned against each other, supported only by the timber wall at their backs.  John’s eyes were shining with mirth; Sherlock could get lost in their depths for ages if he let himself.

 

A lock of Sherlock’s hair fell across his forehead as he leaned closer to whisper, “Do you want me to tell you about the lover he has in Edinburgh and the two illicit children he has with her?”

 

John barked out a laugh.  “I think you just did, Siger.”

 

Their smiles faded in tandem as they continued to hold eye contact.  The tension coiled between them, crackling and unyielding.  Sherlock cocked his head to get a better view of John’s lips.  John licked them as he reached up to tuck the wayward curl behind Sherlock’s ear.  His hand lingered on Sherlock’s jaw as he brought his face closer, ghosting his lips lightly against Sherlock’s.  Sherlock sucked in his breath at the unfamiliar sensation tingling along his nerve endings.  He shivered in the warm humid air. 

 

John pulled back, and Sherlock reluctantly straightened.  They both were pulled back into awareness as a loud _clip-clop, clip-clop_ echoed through the night.  Sherlock motioned with his head, and both he and John snuck along the terrace wall until they peaked around the corner of the building.  A fancy carriage with a team of four horses was pulling away from the kerb. 

 

“The Prince has left,” Sherlock remarked.  Sounds of music starting up again drifted through the air.  John positioned himself directly in front of Sherlock, and gave him a most charming smile.  He held out his hand, bowing slightly at the waist.

 

“Would Sir care to dance?”

 

Sherlock grinned.  “Sir would, but only with the handsomest soldier in attendance.”  He placed his soft smooth hand in John’s rough calloused one, and together they joined the merriment.

 

They had eyes only for each other for the rest of the evening.  Sherlock could not remember a time when he had so thoroughly enjoyed himself while in another person’s company.  He didn’t try too hard to analyse the feeling.  He just gave himself up to it, and allowed himself to be pulled into the energy swirling and amassing around him, lowering his inhibitions to a dangerous degree. 

 

He was so caught up in the gaiety of the atmosphere that he almost forgot to leave before the dance ended.  It was only when John again excused himself to the toilets that his eye happened to glance at the clock on the wall to see that it was fast approaching midnight.  With much greater reluctance than the previous evening, Sherlock slipped out and melted into the moonless night.

 

He barely had time to cover himself with his rushes and situate himself in the corner with a book before the other servants arrived home.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next day the servants kept going on and on about how the very handsome man was there again, and how the master’s son again only had eyes for him.  Wagers were being placed as to whether this was finally the one that would mend the poor captain’s broken heart and once again fill him with the _joie de vivre_ that used to surround him constantly.  Molly again urged Sherlock to come along that night to see the young couple, since this was to be the last evening of the gathering.

 

“Don’t you want to see the course of true love work its magic?” Molly urged.

 

Sherlock shrugged.   “Not really my area,” he replied truthfully.

 

Molly squeezed his shoulder gently.  “Well, if you’re sure then.  A chance like this doesn’t come along very often.  I thought perhaps you could give your deductive skills a go, maybe figure out who this man is, where he comes from… if he perhaps means Master Watson harm, or if he truly cares for him.”

 

Sherlock scoffed.  “Really, Molly, I can tell you the answer to that without even meeting him.  No one can truly _care_ for someone after only knowing them for a few scant hours.  It’s absurd in the extreme to believe otherwise.  I’m surprised at you, Molly, for buying into such romantic, _sentimental_ drivel.”

 

Molly flushed an angry shade of red, and a look of extreme hurt flashed across her face.  She shot back defensively, “You always say such awful things… always, every time.”  She turned on her heel and fled the kitchen in the direction of the stables, biting back a sob as she went.

 

Sherlock felt a fleeting stab of guilt for a moment before quickly sublimating it in favour of the more familiar detachment.

 

Sherlock avoided Molly for the rest of the day, stealing into the garden until everyone had left for the neighbouring village.  He spent an inordinate amount of time that evening on his appearance, stealing into the Master’s and Mistress’s bedroom to make use of a straight razor with a gold-gilded handle and to elegantly dab a generous amount of Eau de Cologne in strategic places on his neck.

 

He boldly rifled through the dresser drawers until a found a crimson cravat.  He held it up to his neck as he looked in the mirror, nodding at how fetching it looked against his deep aubergine waistcoat.  Neck cloths were not something he normally wore; however, this was probably going to be his last night with John, so he was going to go all out.  He deftly tied it around his neck. 

 

When he was finally satisfied with his appearance, he strode over to the wardrobe and from its bowels snatched a satin midnight-black cloak.  He clasped it around himself, scanned the room to make sure he had left no traces of his presence, then swept out as silently as he had entered.

 

* * *

 

 

This time, when John caught sight of Sherlock, he greeted him with proprietary kisses on each of his cheeks before pulling back and sweeping his face with concerned eyes.  “Are you alright?  You left again so abruptly – oh my god, you smell heavenly.”  He closed his eyes and leaned in closer, inhaling Sherlock’s scent deeply.  “What is that, cologne from Germany?  My father wears that whenever he’s trying to get back into Mother’s good graces.  However did you get your hands on that?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut as his body responded in unfamiliar ways to John’s proximity.  His pulse quickened and his hands fisted into John’s tailcoat, which was warm and velvety and a rich navy colour that complemented his kind eyes….

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.  The look in the eyes he had just been fantasising about was amused, affectionate… loving.  Sherlock swallowed, and gave John a shaky smile.

 

“Hello,” he whispered softly.

 

“Hello,” John responded, smiling brightly.  As if on cue, the string quartet struck up a stately waltz.  With a look exchanged between them that spoke volumes, and was completely understood by both parties, Sherlock and John seamlessly moved onto the floor, stepping in perfectly synchronised harmony.  As if they were one body moving under the impetus of one will.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few hours passed like a whirlwind.  When he was in John’s arms dancing, Sherlock felt safe and protected.  When they walked along the riverbank, arm in arm, he felt a warm tingling from the top of his head to the tips of his toes as he elicited several variants of “Amazing” and “Brilliant”.  He had never felt as cherished, even as the youngest child of a doting mother. 

 

“You look especially handsome tonight,” John remarked as they sat beneath the branches of a sprawling weeping willow.  They had wandered several metres away from the party, and were quite alone.  The quiet gurgle of the passing river was the only sound invading their tranquillity. 

 

John brushed a finger down Sherlock’s cloak, from the clasp at his neck, down his arm, to the curve of his waist.  “My father has a cloak very similar to this one.”  He moved his hand back up to stroke Sherlock’s smooth, freshly-shaven face.  “You’ve made a special effort for me this evening.  I appreciate it, but wouldn’t you feel more comfortable if you were less… confined?”

 

Sherlock stood up on shaky legs and whipped the cloak off.  He spread it on the bank behind him, then motioned for John to sit with him on it.

 

As soon as they were seated, John leaned over Sherlock and started gently carding his fingers through his hair.  Sherlock’s breath hitched as John tilted his head back and placed a sweet open-mouthed kiss on his jaw.  An involuntary shudder passed through his body, and John smiled into the kiss. 

 

“You like that?” John asked as he expertly loosened Sherlock’s cravat and opened the top two buttons on his waistcoat.  Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide and his face was flushed.  “The evidence would suggest that you do.”  John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and peppered his cheeks and eyelids with butterfly kisses.  When their lips finally met, an unexpected jolt of desire flared in the pit of Sherlock’s belly, disorienting and unsettling him.  He had no experience with such sensations, and he clutched desperately at John in an attempt to tether himself to something familiar and safe.  Then John coaxed his lips open with his own, and when the wet heat of his tongue swiped the inside of his mouth, he was utterly and completely lost.  A loud groan escaped his throat before he even knew what was happening.  Something was coalescing at the base of his spine, something he had no frame of reference for whatsoever.  His thoughts dissolved into nothingness as heat spiked in his groin, and something was rushing through him, rushing towards a place he had never been before, and…

 

John pulled back and placed a hand on his cheek, grounding him and giving him a much-needed anchor.  He opened his eyes to see the sadness he had seen at their very first meeting staring him in the face. 

 

“I was so lonely, for so long, until I met you,” John said.  “I may not even know your true name, where you came from or where you live.  But I do know that if I were to lose you now, it would very likely kill me.”  John bent his head and slipped the chain with his wedding ring off his neck.  He took Sherlock’s hand and placed it in his palm, closing his fingers around it. 

 

Then he spoke a vow, sacred in its simplicity. “I will love you for as long as I draw breath.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock.  “John, I… You mustn’t... I can’t…” 

 

He pushed John away frantically and scrambled to his feet.  He grabbed the cloak from the ground and hugged it to him like a shield.  His cravat hung loosely around his collar, its brilliant hue adding to the blush on his face.  The look he gave John was tortured. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely before turning on his heel and fleeing into the night.  John cried out after him, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock clutched the ring and its chain tightly in his palm as he ran back towards the manor, desperate to distance himself from the source of all of the inconvenient emotions that were throwing his thoughts into such disarray.  Lightning lit up the sky and thunder cracked through the air as the skies opened up and emptied a deluge onto his fleeing form.  He was thoroughly drenched, clothes plastered and sticking to his skin, by the time he reached his refuge.

 

He locked himself in his bedroom and scrambled out of his wet, dripping clothes.  He dried himself off as best he could before he donned his outfit of rushes once again.  Without his clothes underneath, they clung to him in a most unflattering manner.  There was no way he could hide his sopping clothes away from prying eyes, and he was going to have to return the cloak and cravat in the conditions in which he had found them. 

 

There was nothing for it.  He waited until everyone had returned home and retired to their beds before he ventured into the kitchen to retrieve a drying rack.  He hastened to the library and broke in the way Molly had shown him.  There were two fireplaces, one at each end of the room.  He prepared a fire in one, and placed the rack with the wet clothes and dripping cloak as close to it as he dared.  Then he retrieved a book from one of the shelves and settled down on a settee to wait for the clothes to dry. 

 

He would just have to sneak the cloak and neck cloth into the master’s bedroom after he rose for the day, and hope to chance that the colonel or his wife wouldn’t notice anything missing before then.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days passed in a foggy haze.  A feeling of discontent settled over Sherlock like an ill-fitting garment; it made his skin itch unpleasantly in places he couldn’t reach.  He didn’t care to define what it was he was feeling; to do so would mean he would have to admit things to himself that he wasn’t ready to do.  He was a master of performance art, though, and he was secure in his ability to keep his disquiet well-hidden.

 

He hadn’t counted on Molly Hooper’s perceptive concern.

 

News of how the master’s son was making a concerted effort to find his lost love spread like wildfire throughout the village.  True to the nature of most people (practically everyone was an idiot), John didn’t even think to search amongst his own household.  Hiding in plain sight had never been so easy… or so frustrating.

 

Molly approached him one afternoon when he was feeling particularly dispirited and listless.  He sat on a bench in the garden near the fountain, watching the bees collect nectar and pollen and writing notes on a pad of paper in a desultory fashion.  She quietly sat down without invitation and regarded him in silence for several minutes.

 

“What?” he finally bit out in annoyance.

 

“You look sad,” she said softly.  She wrung her hands together anxiously as she struggled to put her thoughts into words.  “Are you okay? Don’t just say you are, because I know what it means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you.”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped up in surprise. “What does it mean, exactly?” he asked, as if he really didn’t know himself. 

 

“It signifies a broken heart.”  She gave him a significant look.  “You are in love, Cap O’ Rushes.  Not only that… you are in love with Captain John Watson, the master’s son.  And he, quite obviously, is in love with you.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw dropped and his mouth gaped.  “What… what are you talking about?” he stuttered.

 

Molly cocked her head and furrowed her brow.  “I was there, each night, watching the captain with stars in his eyes dancing with a very handsome man in elegant clothing.”  She reached out and parted the rushes covering Sherlock’s body to reveal the clothing hidden underneath.  She lifted her head to meet his eyes.  Her mouth curved up in a tremulous smile.  “I also could never mistake those eyes for anyone else’s.

 

“Why don’t you _go_ to him, Cap?  He’s desperate to find you, and you love him.  There’s nothing standing in your way of being together.”

 

Sherlock took Molly’s hands in his own and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles.  “He’s better off without me,” he said quietly.  “I have nothing to offer him; what would he want with a penniless, homeless waif such as myself?”

 

“But you’re _not.”_ Frustration warred with exasperation in her expression.  “You obviously are high-born, with the clothes you are wearing.  The way you carried yourself at the dances screamed gentry and privilege.  There’s no reason for you to be wasting away here amongst us common folk.”

 

Sherlock shook his head.  “It’s not just that,” he admitted in a low voice.  “He told me that he loved me.  And I am incapable of reciprocating.”

 

Molly huffed.  “I don’t believe that,” she said indignantly, with the air of someone defending a loved one from slanderous accusations.

 

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.  “I’ve learned that love is a dangerous disadvantage, Molly.  I tried unsuccessfully to express my sentiment towards my family, and it backfired badly.  That is why I am in this situation.”

 

Molly looked at him thoughtfully.  “How did you express this sentiment?  What words did you use, exactly?”

 

“I told my brother that I loved him as much as fresh meat loves salt.”

 

A look of horror crossed Molly’s face, followed by amusement.  She chuckled as she placed a warm palm against Sherlock’s cheek.  “Oh, Cap; people certainly do silly things, don’t they?  Even you.”

 

She leaned in close, eyes darting around as if she were about to impart a great secret for his ears only.  “Next time, try not to be so clever, yes?  All you have to do is simply say ‘I love you.’  That usually works miracles.”

 

Sherlock didn’t look convinced, but he nodded graciously.  “I will take it under advisement, Molly.  Thank you for your insight.”

 

Molly leaned back, intimate moment fading into the background.  “You didn’t know him before, Cap.  We had all despaired of him ever being happy again, after Mary… his wife died.  He was like a different person when he was with you.   You gave him his life back.  Don’t be so cruel as to snatch it away from him so soon.”

 

When she got up and returned to the house a few minutes later, she left a contemplative Sherlock behind.

 

* * *

 

 

The gossip currently circulating was that John was confined to his bed, languishing for the love of his mystery man.  This news was too much; Sherlock would not stand for such self-destructive behaviour over someone like _himself,_ for God’s sakes.  He decided it was time to reveal his true identity.

 

He strode into the kitchen, filled with confidence and bluster.  “What are you doing?” he demanded of the cook, Mrs Hudson. 

 

Mrs Hudson graced him with a stern look.  “I’m making some gruel for the young master, hoping to speed his recovery from a broken heart.”

 

Sherlock waved her away impatiently.  “I’ll make it.  Old family recipe.  I’ll call you when it’s finished.”

 

The cook was affronted at his imperious manner.  “Young man!” she exclaimed in a scandalised tone.  “I’m not to be ordered about like some common servant!  I am a highly trained professional, not some menial labourer!”

 

Sherlock towered over here as he fixed with her with his best intimidating glare.  “Mrs Hudson… isn’t it time for your herbal soothers?”

 

She tutted at him, but turned to leave just the same.  “Be my guest,” she threw over her shoulder as she left him to it.  “But clean up any mess you make… I’m the cook, not the housekeeper.”

 

Sherlock set to preparing a most flavourful and spicy porridge that he knew John would appreciate.  When it was ready to serve, he reached into his pocket and brought out the golden ring and chain.  He dropped it into the serving bowl, then ladled the gruel over it. 

 

He clapped his hands.  “All ready,” he announced loudly.  “Mrs Hudson!”

 

“Yes, yes, I’m here; no need to shout,” she admonished as she glided back into the kitchen.  Sherlock handed the breakfast tray to her and wordlessly slipped out of the room, in mind to carry on with the daily chores until the expected summons was delivered… which would only be a matter of time.

 

His insides flipped in anxious expectation.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John grudgingly accepted the gruel after putting up a token fight.  All Mrs Hudson had to do was fix him with that beady glare of hers, and his determination wilted like a fragile flower under the midday sun.  He started to dutifully spoon the meal into his mouth under her watchful gaze, expecting oily bland tastelessness…and was pleasantly surprised by the sharp spicy tang that blossomed over his taste buds.  A look of delight crossed his face, and he set to enthusiastically shovel the food into his mouth greedily. 

 

He was scraping the remnants from the bowl when his spoon clinked against something.  He reached in and lifted out the chain with a familiar gold band hanging from it.  He turned to Mrs Hudson, hope shining in his eyes.

 

“Who made this gruel?” he asked with bated breath.

 

“Oh, Cap O’ Rushes made it.  He was most eager to do so; I wasn’t aware he had even a lick of talent in the kitchen.”

 

“Send for him, please, Mrs Hudson.  Tell him I wish to speak with him.”

 

“Certainly.” Mrs Hudson bowed slightly and exited to do her young master’s bidding.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sherlock found himself standing uneasily at John’s bedside and being pinned with a soldierly, steely gaze.  He unexpectedly felt the urge to fidget under that look, and had to forcibly restrain himself from surrendering to it.  A casual flick of his eyes over John’s supine form left a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

 

John looked _terrible._   They hadn’t seen each other for nearly three weeks, and during that time several unflattering changes were evidenced in the soldier’s appearance.  The blonde highlights in his hair had been taken over completely by the grey.  Dark circles under his eyes, bruised and purple, hinted at several consecutive sleepless nights.  His unkempt nightshirt hung loosely from his frame.

 

_Oh John.  I didn’t realise you would be so affected._

“Your eyes remind me of someone.”

Sherlock swallowed.

 

“Tell me, _Cap O’ Rushes,_ did you make this gruel?” John asked, his voice pitched dangerously low.

 

Sherlock flinched at the emphasis on his nom de guerre.  “I did,” he replied.

 

“And where did you get this ring?”

 

“From him who gave it to me.”

 

“And who might you be?”

 

Sherlock threw off his cloak and hood of rushes, revealing himself as the young man that John Watson had fallen hopelessly in love with.  Sherlock gave him a cheeky wink, and said, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, the estate I hail from is Baker Hall – and I will never again be parted from you, John Watson.  I love you.”

 

John beamed with joy.  He jumped up from his sick bed and gathered Sherlock into his arms, kissing him over and over again with passion and adoration.  Sherlock melted into the embrace, humming his approval as he gave himself over to the feelings washing over him.

 

There would be time later to explain his situation to the man in his arms.  Right now, he revelled in the feeling of being cherished, adored… and loved.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The wedding was set for two months on.  Sherlock revealed everything to John, but asked that his identity remain secret from everyone else until the marriage feast.  John didn’t ask questions, but happily indulged his betrothed’s request.  Sherlock’s brother and sister were invited to the feast, but were to be kept in the dark along with everyone else.  John was not a stupid man; he had a fairly good idea what Sherlock was intending, especially considering his love of dramatics.

 

The wedding day arrived.  Just before the nuptials, Sherlock went to speak with the preparers of the wedding feast.  He instructed the cooks to not add salt to the main dishes.

 

The head chef argued, “But the whole meal will be tasteless, and thus ruined!”

 

“That doesn’t matter.  Just do as I say,” Sherlock said.  After much grumbling, the cooks finally gave in to his request.

 

The wedding went off without a hitch.  Molly stood for Sherlock, while John’s army mate Gregory Lestrade stood for him.  Sherlock smirked to himself as he watched Molly and Lestrade make eyes at each other all through the ceremony.  He was fairly certain there’d be another wedding in the works before the next year was out.

 

The wedding feast commenced afterwards.  The celebratory atmosphere was infectious, and the attendees practically vibrated with festive energy and enthusiasm.  The appetisers were very well-received; the wine and ale flowed freely.  By the time the main course was served, the mood was relaxed and expectant.  Then the first bites were taken….

 

…and moues of distaste flowed rapidly from person to person.  The dishes were served without one grain of salt to tempt the taste buds.  Groans of disappointment rose up from around the room. 

 

As soon as Mycroft Holmes took the first swallow of his saltless meat, realisation slammed into him.  Echoes of a conversation rose up unbidden in his consciousness.

 

_“How much do you love me, my dears?”_

_“I love you as much as fresh meat loves salt.”_

The high and mighty Mycroft Holmes burst into sobs.

 

John placed his hand on Mycroft’s arm and asked gently, “What is the matter, good sir?”

 

"Oh," Mycroft sniffed, ''I had a brother, once. And I asked him how much he loved me. And he said ‘As much as fresh meat loves salt.' And I turned him away from my door, for I thought he didn't love me. And now I see he loved me best of all. And he may be dead for all I know."

 

A pale hand settled on Mycroft’s shoulder and a deep, distinctive voice rumbled, “No, brother; here I am, alive and well, and ready for reconciliation.”

 

Mycroft twisted in his seat, only to look into the twinkling eyes of his beloved little brother.

 

“Sherlock!”  Mycroft jumped up, making a move to embrace his brother before remembering himself.  Instead, he stiffly placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and gave him an affectionate squeeze. 

 

“It is good to see you, brother,” he said formally.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “For god’s sakes,” he muttered before wrapping his arms around Mycroft and whispering in his ear, “Has my point been made?”

 

“Indeed,” Mycroft said hoarsely, awkwardly returning the embrace.  The brothers stood there, just holding each other for several seconds before John cleared his throat.  They quickly separated, rubbing their necks and pointedly not making eye contact.

 

“So,” John said, rubbing his hands together, “Sherlock, are you going to introduce me to your family?  Or are you just going to stand there looking irresistible in your coattails and top hat?”

 

Introductions were made on behalf of the Watson’s and Holmes’s.  Thereafter, the two families became fast friends and powerful allies.  Sherrinford did indeed go on to become a brilliant lawyer.  Mycroft Holmes managed his estate prudently and retired many decades later with a fortune worth ten times what he had inherited.  John Watson embarked on the study of medicine, and eventually became a well-known and respected surgeon.  Sherlock Holmes earned the title _Sir_ Sherlock Holmes several years after establishing himself as the world’s only consulting detective and first forensic scientist. 

 

John assisted Sherlock on his many cases, and they had many grand adventures.  They weathered many difficult times; an unexpected tragedy separated them for a brief time, but they eventually found their way back to each other.  But those are all stories for another time.

 

For now, let’s just say that they lived happily ever after.  That’s accurate enough, for the abridged version anyway.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks go to prettybirdy979 who encouraged me and gave me suggestions. She is responsible for Mycroft being cast in the role of authority figure in place of Cap O' Rushes' father.


End file.
